


The Musketeers, the Huntress and the Supernatural

by Ashnidante



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Canon Adapted Plots, Daemons, Demons, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, F/M, Magic, My First Fanfic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reader-Insert, Supernatural Creatures, Supernatural Elements, Vampires, Werewolves, djinn, please be kind, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-09 07:58:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11664912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashnidante/pseuds/Ashnidante
Summary: You are a Huntress of the supernatural creatures that prey on humans, you have survived a lonely and painful life as you carry out your family's duty. So what happens when you repeatedly run into the endearing and courageous Musketeers and you take a liking to them?





	1. A new city and a little entertainment.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first posted fanfic so please be nice. I hope you enjoy it and feel welcome to leave kudos and/or nice/constructive comments.

Your hunt has led you to the heart of France, arriving in Paris on foot you track your way through the warren of streets following your seeking spell.

 

Some days ago, as you had passed through a nearby village you had caught whiff of the daemon. After plying some locals with wine at the villages’ only tavern you heard their tale of when the devil had come to their village two moons ago. The blacksmith you had spoken to was emboldened by the wine and thought himself to be the hero of the story, embellishing it as he pleased.

_I was making my way back to my house around the edge of the village having finished a fine piece of work at the forge. It’s the most handsome brazier I’ve ever made, bet the King would like it in his palace, I would. It’s a pretty piece with vines up its sides and canaries on the rim. Ah, um anyway I was walking home when it happened. All the crickets stopped mid song. And the birds. And all the cattle were silent, even the village dogs that’ll bark at the wind. Everything just perfectly still._

_I realised I was holding my breath too as if just the act of breathing would break the moment. And then it broke anyway. Someone was screaming, one of the girls, across the field I saw her. She was standing looking into the trees screaming as loud as could be and all the animals started too. The dogs barking and birds squawking and cattle lowing. And there it stood._

_This great big shadow hunkered there between two trees, big as a bull and then it stood up. It was 10 feet tall and as wide as a cart and it came out of those trees and snatched the girl, just took her from right where she stood screaming. I wanted to help her so I looked around and couldn’t see anything to fight it with proper like. But there was this big stone and so I picked that up and threw it at the thing. I’m strong you know and not just cos I’m a blacksmith. I’ve got a good arm and so I threw the stone at it clear across the field to try to distract it. I hit it too, square on the back, nice and hard like. Bet it hurt it too, you know, cos I got a strong arm. It was a good hard throw. But the thing didn’t turn, it just disappeared into the trees, took the girl with it._

_It was a couple of days later we found her on the banks of the stream that goes through that bush. Torn up she was, but it was more than that, she had this look about her. Like the life had been sucked right out of her, her skin was all pale and sunken. The devil had made her a mistress of his I tell you, never seen nothing like it before._

“And I won’t like to again.” He had finished, mumbling into his tankard as he drained it. You’d slipped out of the tavern and made your way around to the trees edge where he said he’d seen the shadow. You’d soon found the stone he had thrown, a smear of dried black liquid on its edge. The daemons blood. Scraping some of the blood into a vial you’d moved further into the trees out of sight. From the bag over your shoulder you’d drawn a case with an array of pouches and jars containing brightly coloured powders, dried herbs and the like. Selecting a few you’d added measures of them to the vial with the daemons blood. Holding the vial clasped in one hand, your other had danced above it, fingers tracing marks in the air that glowed a shimmering gold. As you’d held the marks in your mind and spoken a few words of incantation, the seeking spell was cast.

 

Now as dusk falls the spell leads you to a tavern near the Musketeers’ garrison. Entering, you survey the room through the candle light, navigating the small tables and stools to take a seat in a corner. Slinging your bag from your shoulder you stow it at your feet, arranging your skirts to hide it from prying eyes. Ordering wine when the bar maid approaches, you shift more comfortably back into your seat and draw the vial from a chain around your neck. Placing it softly on the table in front of you, the seeking spell causes it to quiver and turn to point to one of the rowdier patrons. Your wine arrives and you settle in, to watch and wait.

Across the busy room, someone else is watching too. At the table sits four men, shown to be Musketeers by their leather pauldrons each embossed with fleur de les. The youngest noticed you enter the room and now leans back in his seat to comment to the others “You know, she’s got quite the brooding look to rival yours Athos.” The man apparently named Athos, with old eyes and a scar breaking his moustache, retorts “I don’t brood” Laughing into his drink the darker skinned man with a scar over his left eye, looks over to you “Nah, d’Artagnans’ got you there Athos, she could beat you and you’ve got brooding down to an art.” The fourth man, whose features are sharper and has eyes quick to flirt, remarks “It is a shame to see such a fine lady so morose.” He takes in your subtly elegant midnight blue dress and balanced posture that seem faintly out of place in such an establishment, thinking that you are indeed too beautiful to be so melancholy. He pays for and sends a drink over to you.

Breaking you from your thoughts the barmaid sets another glass in front of you, leaning in she explains “ _He_ sent it for you” she flashes her eyes over her shoulder to a good looking Spaniard drinking with his three friends. Looking at whom she indicated, you catch his eyes; raising his glass in greeting he flirtatiously winks at you with a smile. As you politely return the smile the bar maid leans closer “If you don’t mind me saying, I’ll have him if you don’t”. Breaking eye contact with the man you glance up at the woman nodding obligingly “By all means”, you have a different sort of prey in mind tonight. Ducking her head appreciatively she makes her way back through the crowded tables and drunken Parisians to go about her work. You note how she now presses close to the man each time she delivers more wine to the small group and how she lingers to flirt with him. His attention diverted, you return to your study of your prey.

The daemon has a weak shifting ability, allowing it to take the form of its last victim. Presently it appears to be a fair-haired yardsman with tanned skin and strong features, though his nose is slightly too broken to be considered handsome. He wears not untidy clothes and has a full purse on his belt. It is this that draws the attention of the less reputable female patrons of the tavern and that has him buying round after round of drinks on a whim. As the night wears on and more drinks are called for, your target becomes increasingly loud and free with his coin. His ‘friends’ are not the only ones drinking more than they should; the Musketeers have all forgotten the brooding woman in the corner.

It is only as Athos finishes another wine that he sees you getting up and slinging a large bag over your shoulder, he had not notice it previously hidden by your skirts as it had been. He watches as your eyes follow the loudest patron that night, the one who has bought many drinks for others, the Musketeers included. The man is leaving with a young woman hanging off his arm and every word, exiting the front they disappear from view. Athos frowns at your gaze, that of a predator stalking its prey, worried at the potential trouble he and his friends may have to deal with in their drunken state. He dismisses his concern when you leave via the backdoor, not the front like the man and woman and turns back to brood into his empty cup before refilling it.

 

In the alley behind the tavern you change from your blue dress into your hunt clothes, leggings and loose shirt with soft boots and gloves, all of them black to better hide you in the shadows. Sword and dagger on your hips. Bandana to hold your hair and scarf pulled up over your nose to ward the chill from your breath. Cloak settling over your shoulders and hood pulled up, you stow your previous attire in the bag and sling it over your shoulder. Sufficiently swathed in darkness, only your hard glinting eyes visible, you leap to the roof of the adjacent house stowing the bag for later retrieval. You turn toward the sultry laughter clattering off the cobbles as the lady flirts with her mark. Stalking them from the rooftops you follow as they make their way along the street, the man taunting and women laughing at those they pass.

She leads him into a dimmer alley across the main way where she intends to lighten his purse and he intends to take her soul.

You feel the air hum with dark anticipation as he barely contains himself from taking her right there in the street. Once they step into the dark of the alley you leap the dozen feet across the way to the other roof, as if stepping forwards a mere foot, landing silently on the tiling and leaning forward to look into the alley below as a scream splits the air.

The daemon has partially lost its hold on its form as it hungers for the feed. The woman skitters back from the creature in front of her, heel catching her skirt hem she topples back releasing another scream to be silenced as her head contacts the wall behind her, knocking her out. With a sigh you drop to the ground between her and the creature, eyes catching the faint light, the sharp blade of Ascaros hissing as you draw it. At the sight of the sword and recognition of the swirl of power that flows from it, the daemon drops the rest of its mirage and draws up to its full height; shifting from an insubstantial and misshapen fair haired man into a hulking 8 foot beast resembling a humanoid boar.

Oily black fur sparsely covers its chest growing thicker over its upper arms and shoulders. The digits of both its hands and feet are short and to the point, or in this case, harshly edged hooves designed to rend and tear at flesh. Coils of muscle up its arms and across its chest show the power to rip a bull in two and while its legs are shortened and disproportionate to the rest of its body they too would easily separate skull from spine with a single kick. Which would likely be a preferable and easy death to the one brought about by its tusks. A set of deadly tusks protrudes from each of its jaws, black and as thick as a forearm each they speak of gore and blood and the hot rancid breath that would wash over you as they tear at and consume you. Set back and up the mangled face a pair of small but keen eyes peer back at yours promising a painful and slow death and an eternity of suffering once it has consumed your soul.

Setting your feet and tightening your grip on Ascaros’ hilt you wait for the daemon to make the first move knowing that you will make it its last. A rumbling growl emanates from its chest in challenge and as the last beat falls, it moves. Lunging its body forward, head down to thrust up into your rib cage with its tusks, serrated hooves scythe in from the sides, it charges in the narrow alley. Aware of the unconscious women behind you to whom you know the charge will be fatal if you dodge it to execute a kill stroke without calling on magic, you draw on the power of your 13th djinn, Arcus, whose power is over the passage of time. Somersaulting forward into the space over the daemons slavering tusks your sword traces violet through the air, the tip biting into flesh and delivering to the daemon eons of time. Aged beyond reckoning even for daemons, midstride time catches up to it and before your feet touch the ground across the alley it has fallen to dust to be blow away by the wind.

You check on the woman on the ground feeling the back of her head, hand coming away with blood on your glove. You reach under your cloak into a pouch on your belt drawing a small jar from it. Your left hand tilts the woman’s head forward while your right pops the lid off the jar to sprinkle some of the powder within, onto the wound. The grains soak into the blood and staunch the bleeding. Laying her head back against the wall you summon in your mind the runes of protection and rest. Fingers etching the glowing symbols in the air you invoke your spirit magic to lay a protective spell on the unconscious woman so that she can rest undisturbed for the night.

Straightening up from the woman in front of you, you stagger back fumbling the lid on the jar and placing it back into its pouch, ground spinning under you. The world steadies as your back presses to the cool stones of the alley wall. Taking a shuddering breath, pain courses through your body as you suffer the rebound from using the power of the djinn. Pressing your hands flat to the wall you steady yourself knowing what is coming, the rebound from Arcus is always similar. Your body flashes hot and cold as images run through your vision; blood and death and loss. As you have used only a touch of its power you suffer no physical damage and as quickly as the torment of the rebound comes, it passes; leaving you pressed to the wall breath misting in front of your face.

Footsteps clatter on the cobbled street signalling it is time for you to leave as guards and residents are drawn to the scream the woman had uttered earlier. Pushing off from the wall you intend to make your way back to collect your bag again and find an inn for the night. Along the way you find a little entertainment.

Approaching the building upon whose rooftop your bag is stowed your attention is drawn down a side street by heckling and drunken slurs. A dozen men with red capes adorning their shoulders and bearing wooden batons or stones, are advancing on a drunk group of four, among whom is the flirtatious Spaniard from earlier. You can hear comments of “...honour...” “too drunk to shoot straight” and something about a melon before a member of each group charges the other and it breaks into an all out brawl.

Despite being out numbered three to one the Musketeers do not immediately draw their weapons and you hear the large Musketeer who first charged their mockers growl something about “Not needing them to take you out.” This soon becomes apparent to be false confidence as in their state of intoxication you can see their movements to be slowed and coordination lacking. The larger group soon gains the upper hand and disarms their opponents as they go to resort to, the less prideful but more practical means of, fighting off their attackers’ batons with their swords rather than fists.

Taking pity on the outnumbered and now weaponless men you stride down the street to join the fray. The first red cape you reach, you rap sharply on the back of the neck, dropping him like a stone. The next turns to come at you with a baton, you catch the weapon, twist it from his hands and return it to him with a heavy swing to the stomach, knocking out his wind. Leaving d’Artagnan to wrestle his last remaining opponent you move on to help the Spaniard by pulling a red cape from him whom you then throw head first into the wall to slump to the ground. The other two shove the Spaniard at you in an attempt to knock you both off your feet. You side step the stumbling musketeer, letting him fall to the ground in favour of conking the men’s heads together almost comically.

The remaining Musketeers have both defeated one of their opponents but are still each beset by another two. The burlier Musketeer further from you lets out a roar and bodily throws the men off him to pounce upon one of them to knock them out. As such you move to help Athos by snatching the legs out from under one of his attackers and helping the red cape to the ground with a hard elbow jab to the chest. Taking advantage of the distraction the Musketeers dispatch the last opponents they are currently engaged with just as, from your crouch over the man you have just dropped, you see movement in the corner of your eye and your hand shoots out to catch the rock thrown at you by the last remaining red cape. For a moment you appreciate the look of shock on his face before whipping your wrist out to send the rock into the man’s face, effectively ending the fight. A chorus of low moans and groans sound throughout the street as you straighten from the throw and continue down the cobbles.

As you step across Athos’ view he notices the fine but subtle fabric of your cloak and ornate detailing in your leather work before his eyes catch the sword on your hip. Frowning at it, he thinks it to be a two handed sword and finds this odd as it would be too slow in any true fight against a rapier and main gauche. Odder still is that as he watches you stop next to a doorway and turn to face the wall across the street from it before launching yourself at it. Stepping up the wall you push off, twisting midair, to catch the window above the doorway, before springing backwards off it and catching the opposite roof edge. Flipping your body up and around you land on the roof and disappear from view. The Musketeers stay in stunned silence for a moment before the burly one asks “Did that really just happen?”


	2. A Second Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wrote most of this within a couple of days of putting the previous chapter up and I was going to put it up so you had a nice short update time, but then I read it and realised it was a flat filler chapter which is stupid to have as the second chapter (and would have been even more annoying to me than to you) so I spent the extra week rewriting it a few times so that it was less flat and a bit less fillerish. I hope you dont mind the extra wait for it, also its almost twice as long as the previous so meh *shrugs*

Sitting in the low roofed room, light streaming in thru windows from outside to cast dubious shadows on the room’s equally questionable occupants you pick at the chicken drumstick and lump of cheese you are having for lunch. You have been staying at this particular inn for almost a week now, you have had little in the way of news of any nearby cases of interest and are beginning to think that it may be coming time to move on.

Perhaps towards Spain you muse as you think over the infrequent murmurs you hear from whisps. Such mutterings are what have brought you back to mainland Europe from England, you have been hearing of a perturbing number of supernatural occurrences, largely centred on France and Spain. With the rumoured war brewing you know all manner of creatures will be tempted into taking advantage of the situation, everything from ghouls and black dogs to homunculi and ogres, certainly the demons and vampires exploit national conflicts.

You resolve to head south by the end of the week if you do not soon find some dark creature to hunt. You can feel the undercurrent of bloodlust in your veins, your first djinn Vitaris is never sated but you know the urges are easier to suppress the more consistently you hunt.

Taking another sip of the cheap wine you overhear a stable boy gossip to one of the serving girls. “You know that rich fool Allard that’s in here all the time.”

“Aye, he’s a drunk that one.”

“Well last night I saw the Red Guards taking him to the morgue down the way, they said he drunk himself to death.”

“And good riddance, he wouldn’t stop grabbing, wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“No but this morning, I saw them stomping out of there complaining about his body being stolen and now they had to find it!”

“Who’d want to take a dead man? His purse maybe, but not his body” She exclaims in shock.

Finishing your meal you move to leave, stopping by the inn keeper to slide a couple of coins to him asking “I don’t suppose you would be able to tell me where Monsieur Allard lives would you?” He briefly frowns at the peculiar question being posed to him by a woman but upon eyeing the coins soon gives you directions to the residence.

 

Leaving the inn you stop in the street to ensure your skirts, today sky blue, are properly arranged to hide your daggers. You decide to enquire at the morgue before at the ‘possibly deceased’ mans house.

Approaching the morgue, four familiar figures emerge from the doorway. You turn your side to them and lift your hand to ‘check your hair’ surreptitiously watching them mount up and listen to d’Artagnan complain loudly “Why does Treville have us looking into this, the man was clearly so drunk that they mistook him for dead and brought him here. When he woke in the morning he stumbled out with a hangover.”

Athos replies with a reprising gaze “Something about he being the brother of the Kings favourite falconer” The rest of the conversation is lost from your ears as they turn the corner.

Entering the dreary morgue you seek out the attendant clearing your throat to draw his attention from his work. Turning to you he startles and the colour drains from his face as he recognises you. Backing up he begins babbling furiously “I-I haven’t d-done anything. I p-promise I’ve b-b-been good. N-not a touch of the live stuff, check m-my eyes if you will.”

“Relax, I know you have been keeping your word.” You reassure the short rotund man wearing a bloodied apron and pale complexion. For he is in fact a ghoul; one of a number scattered throughout the major cities who resent the lot they have been given and swear never to consume live flesh. In return for their word they are able to establish lives within human society; often as morgue attendants where they can easily obtain the human flesh they need to survive without the need to harm anyone. It is easy to assess if they are keeping their word as, for often as long as a decade, after eating live flesh their eyes carry a distinctive red ring around the iris. So long as they keep their word, as this one has evidenced by his pale green eyes without a trace of red, you leave them be to make what they can of their supernatural lives.

You see the tension and fear drop from his face in relief. “I am here on a different matter, that of a missing body, I don’t suppose you mistakenly _appropriated_ it a little too soon after their passing?”

 “Oh no. He wore courtier’s clothes, I never feed from them; they always have someone come for them. And he was definitely dead, despite what those Musketeers assume, I received the body myself last night.”

Giving a nod of your head you thank him and go to leave before turning back as he adds “But there was an odd scent about his meat, something off, not in the sense he had been left too long he was still fresh, but that there was something that shouldn’t be there and that put him _here_. A poison perhaps, but I didn’t have the chance to examine him properly so I didn’t mention it to the Musketeers.”

“Thank you for your help, I’ll drop by a suppression charm in a few days as payment.”

“Oh how very kind of you, I would be very grateful.”

 

Following the innkeepers directions you make your way to Monsieur Allard’s house dropping by a market on the way. At the market you purchase a simple pendant and chain that you will later spell with the suppression charm you promised the morgue attendant. For those creatures that feed on humans the charm works to suppress the desire and make it easier to resist feeding on still living humans. The charms are uncommon as few of these creatures are ever of the mind to fight these urges in the first place. But for those that do the charm will make life a little easier for them until it eventually wears off in a number of years. Stowing the pendant you continue on your way.

 

Arriving at the modest, though in slight disrepair, Allard house you lean on the wall beside an open window glancing in to see the Musketeers speaking with a woman in a tidy kitchen. Listening to the voices inside, while making it appear that you are simply waiting for someone, you hear a woman sobbing and soft murmurs of comfort. A pleasant voice with Spanish tones gently nudges “We can only help if you tell us.”

Around her sobs you make out the woman’s voice confess to the men “He would often go out after dinner and I know what men do then but I was, am, his wife. But sometimes when he came back, if he was drunk or in a temper... He would strike me.” You hear a low growl and can practically feel the men bristle in anger. “We will find out what has happened to him, but either way he will not touch you again Madame.” Reassures dry and clipped tones with the pronunciation of a Noble.

She thanks them between her sobs before they soon excuse themselves and bid her farewell, promising to return when they have news. Lingering at the window as the men exit and pass by you, unaware of your presence, you remain long enough to hear that once the woman inside thought the Musketeers gone she abruptly stops crying. Peering in the window you see her wiping away the tears and prettying herself up. Realising the crying to have been an act you move to follow her as she leaves the house.

 

Tailing her through the streets cobblestones give way to simple dirt and muck. While the ebb of people on the street increases, the state of the clothes they wear worsens as you approach one of the riverside poor districts. Drawing your cloak around you to better hide your nicer dress you drop your shoulders and head, slouching slightly to even better blend with those you pass by.

Not ten feet from her when she pauses, you turn to the nearest riverside stall taking a faux interest in its wares as she looks behind her in an attempt to check she is not being followed. Apparently distinctly unaware that you are doing just so, she enters a nearby doorway. Stepping after her you see skirt hems flick around the corner at the top of a flight of stairs that lead further into the ramshackle house.

Ascending the stairs while being careful not to give your presence away with any inopportune creaks from said stairs you pause at the top peering around the corner as you hear her rapping at a door and hissing “Lucas what happened with the poison?”

Rattling the handle the door swings open and so she enters continuing in her worried though nagging tone, sneering the term of affection for her husband. “Musketeers came by the house to tell me my _dear_ husband was taken to the morgue last night but that now he’s gone.”

Finishing the stairs and closing the distance to the apartment that she has entered you begin to think that this is not a supernatural matter and so none of your concern, that you can let the Musketeers deal with it. “I thought when you said you would get rid of him for us to be together, you meant kill him, not anything about disappearing the body, now we have Musketeers looking into it.”

Entering the rooms you find the apartment to be quite large and its furnishings to be in great contrast to the run down building and impoverished district. Ornate rugs line the floors with sumptuous couches and polished woodwork arranged tastefully throughout the room. Moving to the next, similarly decorated, room and continuing to follow Madam Allard’s voice through the apartment you suspect this be the home of one of the local thief lords, for how else would all this luxury remain un-stolen in this district.

“If it had been Red Guards it would not be so bad but Musketeers are halfway competent and AAAAHHHHH!” At the sound of her complaint being cut off by a scream you draw a knife from your skirts and throw your cloak to your back freeing your arms as you turn a corner to find the, still screaming, lady collapsed in a doorway.

In the room beyond you see, seated at a great desk, the remains of a body. And remains truly are all that is left, the man’s skull is crushed inwards like an egg, blood and brains lay splattered down his finery.

Pushing past the woman you become aware of the thumping of boots on stairs as someone else enters the building in response to the scream, but more immediately you see what is crouched in the far corner of the room. Hunched over and curled on its knees in the corner is what once was a man, and what you recognise to be a revenant. It has not yet reacted to the screams and instead is occupied by obsessively examining the bloody marks that it continues to spread across its fingers.

It is only drawn from its gory finger painting when the screaming stops and a horrified voice asks “Allard?” as the women recognises her husband. Its head snaps up and you hear two gasps behind you, the occupant of the boots from before has finally reached the next room. The revenants face is gaunt and white as death, for the body is in fact dead and possessed by a spirit that you suspect to be that of Monsieur Allard.

Having no time to draw capture runes and two still alive humans to protect, one of whom you assume is also a target to the spirit, you drop your wards and flare your power so that the Revenant senses an immediate danger and moves to flee. Releasing a gurgling growl from decaying vocal cords the creature surges to its feet and quickly, though uncoordinatedly, throws itself out the adjacent open window. A dull thud and exclamations of shock sound from the alley below as you move to follow it out the window.

You hear the click of a gun being cocked behind you and a deep grumble ordering you “Hold it there.”  Pausing to lift your wards once more, to hide your power and presence from supernatural creatures, you take the precaution to add another ward. Though it takes a moment and is strenuous to maintain it means that should the man fire upon you when you disregard his order, and should his aim be any good and he hit you; the bullet will do no damage and will simply crumple upon impact as though it were soft beard dough being kneaded against marble.

Resuming your pursuit of the revenant you are glad of the extra ward as you feel his shot hit you in the shoulder as you dive, much more athletically than the revenant, from the window to land on the roof of the single story house across the alley. Continuing the rolling landing you drop to the ground in the next alley over.

You make your way around the house to, while still out of sight, see the burly and darker skinned Musketeer from this morning looking out the window for either of its exiters. Once he pulls back from the window you move into the alley below to assess the impact marks in the dirt from where the revenant landed, but the myriad of other prints make it impossible to distinguish the creatures’ tracks and follow it. Stepping into the flow of the main street the alley feeds; your eyes scan across the heads bobbing away but have no luck in identifying the revenant.

 

Moving to return to your inn you change your mind and make your way instead to the tavern that you first saw the Musketeers at when the Spanish one sent you a drink.

They have piqued your curiosity and you wish to find out a little more about them. That they specifically noticed and acknowledged you in the tavern when so many others eyes merely glaze right over you has its own merit. You wonder if perhaps they have a particular perceptiveness of, or sensitivity to, the strength of the supernatural power that you have access to. You think it unlikely that they would have engaged with you so, simply for your looks as though you are somewhat pretty, if not a little plain, you have found that the air of coldness and distance that you usually have about you dissuades men from approaching you for such petty reasons as looks.

The odd courage and sense of honour, or perhaps more correctly stupidity, which they showed in attempting to win a fight outnumbered three-to-one, without weapons and in their drunken state, is intriguing to you. You even think that despite their inebriation they may have won had the odds only been two-to-one.

You find it unsurprising that there is some form of official investigation into the disappearance of a body from a morgue. What is surprising is that despite the numbers being heavily out of favour of it, the only Musketeers you have had any interaction with are the ones that catch the case that you are also working. Though you are not so young or foolish as to think there is some form of fate or hand of God at work in this coincidence.

But of most particular interest is that the dark skinned Musketeer that must have also followed Madam Allard to her lovers’ apartment had done so without you becoming aware of it. You wonder if, before you entered the apartment after Madam Allard, he had noticed that you were doing the same as he.

 

Arriving at the tavern you enter to, as you had hoped, find the bar maid from that night. Taking a seat at a small table to the side you watch her finish delivering drinks to a table of men wearing red capes, who grab at and crudely flirt with her. When she approaches your table you order some slices of bread and meat and a glass of wine. As she moves to leave your hand catches her arm and you ask “Are those men bothering you?” tilting your head to indicate the red caped men. She lets out a sigh of exasperation before grimacing slightly “The Red Guards bother everyone. But this is the best job I can get and they come with it so I just have to put up with them.”

As she leaves to get your order you slip your hand under the table where it will be unnoticed. Rubbing the tips of your middle finger and thumb together you invoke “Idorvesta evocorray comparel” you feel the hum of spirit magic through your body and the concentration of it to your circling finger tips. Should anyone see your hidden hand, they will see a golden glow on your finger tips and as you now draw them apart, they will see a stream of the same golden light beaming from the two digits as you channel the power in an arc between them. A small frown burrowing into your brow you concentrate to dim the light such that it will go unnoticed when you withdraw your hand from under the table.

Leaving your seat you approach the Red Guards who are none the wiser of the spell you hold in your hand that, though now invisible, you can feel is still active from the magic coursing through your fingers. Smiling mildly flirtatiously to the men you stroll around the table drawing their attention as you trail your spell hand over their shoulders as you pass them, leaving traces of the spell with each of them. Once you have set the spell on all of them you lean over the table to look at them intently.

“Now, you _fine_ men should listen to me.”

Your eyes briefly flash gold and their faces fall slack as the spell activates and you plant a suggestion in their minds as it is reinforced by the spell. “You will treat women with more respect, and tip the barmaid well.” You keep the suggestion short and simple as the more complex it becomes the less power the spell will be able to exert to compel their co-operation.

Returning to your seat you watch as when the barmaid passes the table again one of the men holds out a hand to call her attention. You are surprised to see that it looks like he is apologising to her and then even more surprised when you see him hand over his entire purse. You had not put that much power into the spell but you suppose that the men are even simpler than you had thought, the more flat the personality the stronger effect that suggestion can have.

Pocketing the man’s purse with a smile she brings your food to you. Setting the tray on the table she says “Thank you for whatever it was you said to them. Can I get you anything else?”

You had not used the spell to get her to help you; rather to help her and the other women the men most likely harass. However you take the opportunity she presents and ask for the information you came here for.

“What could you tell me about those Musketeers that were in here the other night?”

She seems faintly put-out by your question and gives as way of answer “We get a lot of Musketeers in here, it’s not far to their Garrison.”

“The group of four with a Spanish looking one, a darker skinned one and a younger one that did not wear a pauldron?”

Understanding the group you are asking about she figures you must have reconsidered the obvious offer from the flirting Musketeer, for she does in fact now remember you from the other night.

“Oh yes the younger one, d’Artagnan, he’s not actually a Musketeer yet but he works with the other three who are. Aramis is the handsome one who looks a bit Spanish, he’s always nice and... quite enjoyable. Porthos is the big dark one, he tends to get in fights with the Red Guards when they get rowdy or handsy. And there’s Athos, he’s quiet and has woman troubles, it’s the only thing that would make a man always drink so much. They’re a decent bunch the Musketeers, much better than the Red Guards.”

You thank and tip her, though not as much as you normally would as the Red Guards had given her much and you did not want her to draw undue attention as an effect of your intervention.

 

After finishing the meal you make your way through the streets to the Musketeers Garrison. Loitering at the stalls outside you watch through the archway as they train. An older grey haired and grizzled man is sparring with the young almost Musketeer you now know to be d’Artagnan. While d’Artagnan attempts to use his youth and speed to advantage his opponent is clearly more experienced and so works to manoeuvre d’Artagnan into awkward footings causing him to be unable to make use of the openings his speed creates.

Aramis, Porthos and Athos sit at a rough-hewn wooden table watching and presently Athos gets up to correct d’Artagnans’ footwork. Approaching the younger man who is still focused on the fight he picks up a broom and taps at d’Artagnans’ heel. Pausing in the fight d’Artagnan looks to what Athos tells him before stepping back to allow the fight to continue. D’Artagnan blocks a series of blows as he focuses on his feet and then starts his own flurry of strikes that create an opening in the older Musketeers’ guard that d’Artagnan is now able to take advantage of and bring his sword to the man’s neck. Grinning and breathing heavily d’Artagnan sheathes his weapons and joins the others at the table.

You watch as they chat away, Aramis appears to be giving Porthos a hard time about something. Porthos is rising to the bait and gives a retort that has Aramis faux clutching his heart in pain. d’Artagnan attempts to intercede and is rewarded with Porthos throwing his nub of cheese at d’Artagnans’ head who ducks leaving it to hit Athos instead. Plucking the cheese from the table and frowning at it and his friends, you can see a hint of amusement in his otherwise dark eyes which soon extends to lift his lips in a wry smile as he throws the cheese at Aramis. Laughing and bating the cheese away Aramis finishes his drink and pulls himself up from the table to head inside the building; the others soon follow.

 

You decide it is time to leave. The revenant will likely have regained its courage from when you scared it off earlier and may soon begin hunting again. Making your way to Madam Allard’s house you considered the situation. The fact that it is Allard’s body that is possessed and that the revenant killed his wife’s lover suggests to you that it is in fact Allard’s spirit that has returned and possesses the dead body. As such you hope that his next target will be his wife. You hoped such a thing as this means you will be able to lay a trap for the spirit and send it back to where it belongs. You also know that now that the revenant has killed someone it will likely have enough strength that if it is forced out of the body it currently possesses, formerly its own, that it will be able to possess a live body and subjugate the spirit within.

You navigate the streets around the Allard house and determined the length of street in which you will lay your trap. The trap will lie along the street directly in front of the houses’ front door with the main way running along the face of the house. It is a wider but less used earthen pathway with few doors opening onto it. A small alley sits part way along with a hay cart backed into it and a convenient alcoved doorway opposite. You prepare the area for the trap by marking sets of symbol across the other streets and alleys that lead to the house. Into each pair of symbols you put a little of your power so that until they faded away in a few days they will dissuade any returned spirits from crossing them and entering the street to approach the house. As such the revenant will be forced down your chosen street if it wishes to kill its ex-wife and murderess.

Just past the alcove and on the opposite side to the Allard house you draw a circle into the ground. When the street is empty you crouch down to press both palms to the dirt and cast a spell. You hold the symbols in your mind and say a few lines of enchantment as your hands glow. The golden light from your hands spreads out to fill the circle you have drawn across the alley. As you finish invoking the spell the glow rapidly fades to leave the same symbols that you had envisioned, glowing in a spiral of complicated characters on the ground. Straightening, the symbols soon disappear too and you step back into the alcove to wait.

 

When night fell and your hunt clothes will be sufficiently inconspicuous you move across the alley to behind the hay cart and change from the blue skirts and blouse into the black leather and weapons before resuming your vigil in the alcove. Several hours more pass and still the revenant has not appeared, you begin to think that perhaps Madam Allard is not the next target of its vengeance.

It is as a cloud uncovers the moon and its light fills the street that you see movement at the end of the alley. A quiet shuffling noise carries down to you as a hunched figure appears and starts to amble its way down the street.

You draw out Ascaros in anticipation.

The apparent inability to correctly use its left leg, leading it to drag it along the ground and make the shuffling noise makes you think this is the revenant, its decaying body giving out on it. When the smell of putrid rotting flesh wafts to you, your assumptions are confirmed; both that this is the revenant and that Madam Allard is its next target.

You stay hidden in the doorway waiting for it to make its slow way down the street to what it thinks to be its vengeance and you know to be its end. Once the Revenant steps into the circle you will emerge from your position and, without entering the circle yourself, strike it down with the enchantments to kill the dead that Ascaros is engraved with. Expelled from the body Monsieur Allards’ returned spirit will attempt to find a new host body, living or dead, but will be contained by the spell circle and rapidly losing strength without a vessel he will once more depart to the next world from whence he had returned seeking revenge.

Or that was the plan anyway; one that you soon realize will be interfered with as you hear the _ssshh_ of blades being drawn from the other end of the street. Looking to the new sound you see, who else but, the four quarrelsome and vaguely intriguing Musketeers striding down the street swords drawn.

At the sight of the Musketeers the revenant pauses and then continues, faster than before. You quickly conclude that should they be allowed to interfere one of them will inevitably become possessed. They will end up attacking the revenant and do such damage to the body that the spirit is expelled and take one of them for a new host. As such you return Ascaros to your belt so that it will be easier to intervene in the Musketeers otherwise certain fate.

As the Musketeers draw level with your position you swing low with your leg out to trip Aramis forward before stepping up behind Athos and firmly tugging back on his collar to send him to the ground on his back.

Drawing Ascaros once more you move to the revenant that has just entered the spell circle and cut its legs out from under it so that it will remain there while you dispatch the other two Musketeers. Plunging Ascaros’ tip into the ground at the circles edge you turn back to see d’Artagnan and Porthos standing ready for you, spreading out so as to surround you. Using a burst of speed and strength you step between them and bodily push them to the sides; d’Artagnan into the doorway that you had been hold vigil in and Porthos into the hay cart.

In this time Athos has regained his faculties such that as you throw his brothers he can see the fabric and leather work that you wear and the odd two handed blade behind you; from these he recognizes you from when you aided them in their fight against the Red Guards.

You turn back to draw Ascaros from the ground and lunge out to drive it into the incapacitated revenant. Keeping your grip on the hilt, from your extend position into the circle while your feet remain outside, you feel the runes along the blade trigger and drive the spirit from the body. A formless wind swirls within the circle as the spirit searches for a new host. After a matter of moments you feel the ripple of power as the spirit returns to the other world and so you withdraw Ascaros from the decaying body.

You straighten from the kill to feel the sharp point of a sword press between your shoulder blades. “Easy does it” a voice you recognise as Athos’ sounds from behind you. Slowly you lift and sheath your sword and raise your hands non-threateningly. The sword presses steadily at your back as movement sounds beside you, your hood is drawn back. Half turning your head your eyes catch Aramis’ “Lets meet our mystery man shall we?” he states in his lilting tone as he reaches to draw down your scarf revealing the lower half of your face. “Well he’s not getting thanks from me after the trouble he’s caused us tonight” Porthos mutters under his breath to your right as he pulls himself from the hay cart into which he was thrown by you.

“No, I suppose _he_ won’t” Aramis remarks with a quirked half smile as the bandana falls away under his hand and your hair drops free to drape around your shoulders revealing their saviour, or in their mind this time attacker, to be a woman. After a breaths pause Athos utters a bemused “Huh” eyes narrowed in thought. As d’Artagnan clatters out of the doorway into which he was tossed asking “What happened?” you decide it is time to leave.

Dropping low and back you slip under the sword Athos hold to your back and turn past him before he can flinch at the quick movement. A few swift strides carry you to a convenient hand hold and leverage point, reaching out to pivot your centre up and around, you alight on the rooftop as he turns after you. “Till next time boys” you give a mock half bow and disappear out of sight across the roofs. “What?” an even more confused d’Artagnan questions looking to his friends. “Until next time indeed.” Athos muses turning to the now vacated body left in the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So let me know what you think of it, kudos and comments are appreciated. As this is my first fic I would especially like any feedback you have on my writing style (what you like/dont so much) Do I need more descriptions of people and surroundings or is it balanced okay? All that sort o f thing would be great thanks and I will try to take them into account.
> 
> SO next chapter stuff properly starts picking up and you have actual interaction with the boys not just ninjaing in and sassing (okay well there is still sass but you actually have a conversation with them) and so you introduce yourself to them. In the stuff for later chapters that I have written I have given your character a name that I feel fits her, Genevieve, and then when you end up with someone (*wiggles eyebrows suggestively* who could that be?) they start calling you Gen all cute like. However I wanted to ask you what you prefer when reading Reader-inserts? Do you mind when your character is given a name or do you prefer it being written as (Y/N) or (Name) or (______)? Let me know what you think and if there seems to be a trend to your thoughts on this before I post the next chapter in a week or so then I'll probably go with that.


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